


Martini Shot

by BraveKate



Series: Director Næsheim [3]
Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Character Study, Director!Even, Established Relationship, Even-centric, Explicit Language, Family Dynamics, Future Fic, In-Laws, M/M, Married Couple, Mental Health Issues, Pappa Valtersen is Gustav in this one, Pretentious, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-28 11:24:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10830276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BraveKate/pseuds/BraveKate
Summary: It’s not like Even had never spent any substantial one-on-one time with Marianne before. He just wishes Isak had more faith in all three of them. And worried less. Also, so there would be no war or hunger in the world. Simple things.***Can be read as a standalone.Part 1,Part 2.





	1. Meadow

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by wonderful [**EmisFritish**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EmisFritish/pseuds/EmisFritish). She was very helpful and tactful and nice! Thank you so much! The circumstances were against us at times, but we persevered :D  
>  **Any leftover mistakes are my own.**
> 
> Also, as always, all my love goes to my dear friend [Anatolia.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Anatolia/pseuds/Anatolia)
> 
> You guys were continuously super nice to me, that’s why I’m a little ashamed to admit: I’ve written this fic for me, first and foremost, to play with Even’s POV (which was so fun!). I identify with Even a lot, and he’s my favorite character in Skam apart from Sana. That’s why this story is a bit… out there. I’m not sure how interesting it will be for you to read.
> 
> May is Mental Health Month! I’ve seen fics circulating were Even’s disorder and/or Isak’s mom’s illness are for various reasons erased. This makes me sad. These works have every right to be written and posted, and I mean no disrespect to their authors. But they are still not the best thing ever.
> 
>  **Specific mental health-related trigger warnings:**  
>  \- brief mentions of past: manic and psychotic episodes, restraints, self-harm, hospitalization;  
> \- mentions of assisted living facility;  
> \- slurs (minimal);  
> \- ableism.  
> Please, check end notes for **more detailed trigger warnings (with spoilers)** and a disclaimer.

At one point down the road, to the right, there’s this beautiful field. Correction, not a field – a meadow. This panoramic fucking meadow framed by postcard-worthy birches and, Even swears, with the most scenic clouds possible above it every time he and Isak drive by. It captures his attention without fail, and once, they even caught a sunset on their way back. Golden and pink fading up into a dusty violet cornice of falling night, with the sun smack in the middle of the shot. View. The middle of the view. They stopped for prosaic reasons, so that Isak could pee into some bushes slightly off the path, but Even took his chance and made a boomerang video. Of the sunset, that is, not of Isak peeing. Which, huh. Isn’t that a thrilling idea.

The point is, places like this meadow seriously start to weird Even out after some time. He keeps returning to them in his head. Or, more accurately, to the mental copy he has of them, perfected through the memory filter, with dreamy hue added in his brain’s post-production. And he starts to wonder: how is it that a person can possess something in its entirety visually, but never get to experience it in any other way? Even has never walked through the meadow, not once. He didn’t get to touch the grass or inhale its scent mixed with the tart sweetness from wild flowers. Never felt the softness under the soles of his shoes.

Human eyes are a direct bridge to the brain. Its most trusted companions. Vision is not the easiest sense to deceive, but it’s worth it in the end, because it’s the most effective treachery – Even would know. Due to his occupation he’s in this grey area of needing to lean on visual perception fully, at all costs, and simultaneously be critical and cautious of it at all times.

So, this beautiful space, a stretch of preserved nature, does it really exist? Or is it just an intricately crafted illusion his eyes are glad to absorb?

Way-way before, somewhere between mom’s off-key lullabies and his first not-boring-yet homework, Even found the first such place of his life. He wasn’t burdened with the right words to describe his unease back then, but it still lingered between his ribs, tugged at the ventricles of his heart. There was a basketball court behind their apartment complex, visible from the balcony, the kitchen windows, and the family room. Even saw it multiple times every day, for years. He learned every crack in the asphalt, every wobbly paint line. But he never _ever_ played there, opting instead for the more obvious park just in front of the building. Looking down at the cheap metallic shields emptied Even from the inside. The more he stared, the more unrealistic it all seemed, and the other kids’ laughter floating up to him sounded almost fake. 

Then came a time – he had already started dating Sonja, a well-meaning fairy with long braided hair and kind eyes – when he couldn’t take it anymore. At barely six in the morning, on the verge of an inevitable high, he stomped down the stairs, foregoing the elevator, and rounded the corner of the building. The court looked different from down there, much smaller, and the netting fence around it stood so tall. Even couldn’t accurately perceive its height from above. He stepped into the cage through its open entrance. A shiver ran through him. In the early morning silence, it felt like entering a ring. A coliseum even. He walked the perimeter, his fingertips tracing countless cells of the fence, rattling it and picking up dust and dirt from the wire. He sat on the ground, right in the center circle. He looked back up at his tiny life contained behind the apartment windows like a fish inside an aquarium. Contained, like the perception of that same life behind his skull, trapped in the net of neurons.

That place turned out to be real. And he somehow felt better for it.

…Flash-forward to now. To the meadow.

Today’s the last Sunday of the month, their usual day to visit Marianne, but Isak got surprised with more Super Important (i.e. “we are using you because you are gullible as fuck”) work, so Even’s the only guest his mother-in-law is getting. Isak was all torn up about it too, falling back on his I’m A Bad Son routine. Even had to be really goddamn charming and calming and persuasive all at once while squashing him against the kitchen counter. A hard thing to do, because Isak knows his nonchalance and easy-going attitude is mostly a fake-it-till-you-make-it façade. Still, in the end, he managed. Every fucking time, this. It’s not like Even had never spent any substantial one-on-one time with Marianne before.

Since reaching thirty and leaving the danger zone, an age frame during which symptoms are most likely to develop – like Marianne’s did in her time, – Isak’s being extremely relieved… and guilty with it. Even renounced trying to “fix things” long ago, so the only objective is to help his husband process this better. He just wishes Isak had more faith in all three of them. And worried less. Also, so there would be no war or hunger in the world. Simple things.

“You’ll bring her flowers from me, right? Tell her I love her? And that I’m sorry?” Isak begged as he resisted being pushed through the doorway with the last bit of his sleepy morning strength. His upper and lower lashes did _not_ want to get separated and kept covering his eyes. It was so adorable, Even could have bitten his whole face right off.

“I’ll do no such thing,” he said lazily. “I’ll simply tell her we’re getting a divorce and I won custody.”

Isak squawked and kicked out at him, but Even just used the distraction to slam the door shut in his face and activate the alarm quickly.

So today he decides to kill two birds with one stone. He doesn’t purchase anything from the usual flower shop, opting instead for a pit stop at the meadow. Their visits with Marianne customarily consist of the Sunday mass (the later liturgy, since road there takes some time) followed by a breakfast-slash-lunch. Even drives up early, cringing through an album Isak supervised for one of those fleeting “singing panties” girl bands, and thus carves almost an hour for himself. He even parks less illegally than before. 

He gets outside and takes in both a deep breath and the view.

The sky is not completely clear today, but it isn’t drably overcast, either. It’s the perfect combination of texture with good amount of shadow and light to play off of it. A heavy ashen blanket over a sheet of blue china glaze, some thinner gouache-white clouds across that, floating closer to the ground. It makes for such quality shots, and not just static ones – there’s wind running high above, and it creates just enough dynamic for smooth non-boring cinematography. 

It’s getting closer to summer, so the air is still warm without the dryness. The grass is dew-wet and sparkly. Even can already feel the bottoms of his jeans getting soaked. His sleeves could be too, maybe, if he unrolls them to fall back down around his wrists. He goes to make the feeling real.

The smell hits him first, and it’s everything he imagined. Without the powdery pollen aftertaste since the sun’s not full-on yet, but it’s heavier like that, more aromatic. The air, when it’s so open, is not at all still and is actually pretty loud, howling around Even and filling up his head. One of the grass blades jumps into his palm, almost like a cat begging to be pet, and the droplets on it are way cooler than he expected. They burn his skin and it’s a glorious surprise.

He Gladiators it as far from the road as it’s smart to do before stopping. There’s no path through the growth, and the meadow keeps resisting his intrusion, slowing down his steps. He feels like he just swam away from the shore, deep enough into the sea that the land is only a line now, barely a hair’s width. His hands are all wet and dripping, with tiny black dots – wet bits of plants – stuck to them. Good thing his watch is, as Isak joked while presenting it to him, Even-proof.

He spins in a slow circle before wiping his palms off on his thighs. His jeans are all covered in dark spots, but here’s to hoping all will dry in time to meet Marianne. Fishing his Iphone out of his pocket is a process: cotton drags at his wet skin. Even’s fingertips squeak against the display when he takes a picture. He opens up the group chat with Eskild, Jonas, and their good buddy from Spain, Mateo. Scrolls past Eskild’s seven billion kids represented by corresponding seven billion pictures, and attaches his own, a rectangle of two-dimensional grass. 

_Pls google if there’s smth poisonous here ASAP_ , he types out to accompany the image.

The following silence only lasts for half a minute.

_You have google on your own phone my dude_

Mateo.

_No church in the wild. Natural selection. Survival of the fittest. Eat whatever looks most appealing and if you’ll live, you’re IT_  
_But don’t really tho_  
_If you die Isak’ll never stop bitching. I can already hear it_

Jonas.

_You’re between projects, correct? Why are you OUTSIDE?!!_  
_Peasant._  
_Shouldn’t you be in a dark room somewhere leaving “fresh” reviews on your own movies?_

A-a-and that’s Eskild.

Rollcall over.

Even is, indeed, between jobs right now, recharging and riding out the creative high (exhaustion) from his last film. It’s time for something more commercially appealing and less award bait-y. A glossy box office success to fatten up his resume and solidify his proficient image further; to show that Even Bech Næsheim is not a one-trick pony, but a versatile professional. Preferably something classy, with practical effects amongst all the CGI, a well-choreographed car chase. Maybe even a real explosion, depends on the budget and the producers. 

He does it in an even pattern, each time after gathering enough moral strength with his pet projects – the ones he actually wants to do, the ones he became what he is for. For now, while the next script is yet to find him, his calendar is filled with smaller jobs. Like music videos – he likes those, they relax him. There’s also joy in having a more home-based routine, being with Isak in the mornings and evenings. He even likes all the endless business meetings. They bring him closer to the office life, and there’s just as much beauty in it as in anything else.

The one downside is that Astrid’s elsewhere for this break, cheating on Even. With some Refn wannabe. Who’s trying to over-pretentious (which is, good luck with that) his idol in a, no doubt, talentless movie. Whatever. Even is not bitter. He just wishes Astrid was his _personal_ assistant, too: she would’ve answered any question swiftly and without the unnecessary chatter.

Unlike the guys, who are flooding Even’s inbox by composing a hypothetical self-review for him. Amidst all the complicated adjectives Even never once used in real life, a single useful sentence from Eskild flashes by:

_Okay, but it’s all super safe though I did my research way back before when we took the twins on their first hike._

Finally.

He is putting the phone away, but Jonas (in a private message this time) wants to know why is Even in the middle of nowhere, “like, seriously, man”. So he only manages to free his hands after some reassurances. The other thing he manages is sinking on soft soil a little because of all the standing in one place. A generic looking bug is now travelling across his left shoe. Even shakes it off gently and turns to the flowers.

Small florets attack his vision with color due to numbers rather than size. There’s a lot of white and yellow, but also a whole palette of pink-to-violet gradient. Wild flowers remind him of Isak. They are a guaranteed, resilient beauty that is easy to overlook, and Even is an immediate slave, fool, and goner for it. The simple and understated crown shapes conceal eternal patterns of universe inside their petals; mandalas and fractals, sacred geometry. It’s the same with Isak, who has spirals and proportions, golden and divine, hidden in his upper lip, his curls; in the way he squints in suspicion, in a curve of his chin flying up defiantly.

Even starts plucking. He doesn’t know any of the plants’ names except buckbeans, and those only stuck around his head because it’s an ingredient in schnapps sometimes. So he lets instinct lead his hand, mind empty. The wind is messing his hair up, throwing it in his eyes and blowing it away in turns. A couple of cars drive by, heard way before and long after their passing, weirdly soothing.

In the end, he gathers a boho looking motherfucker of a bouquet with several high green sprigs shooting out on a slight arch like feathers in a pheasant’s tail. It’s kinda motley, kinda too much, but the smell’s amazing and Even loves it. Marianne could fall either way, though he’s sure he can make her see the awesome. Never underestimate his power of persuasion.

He is a very real human being. A person named Even, existing right now, in this moment, in the middle of this similarly very real meadow. He cannot explore the whole universe like this or know its realness in the same way, but he knows other things. He knows Isak, for instance, and continues to explore him, always, and it’s close enough. It’s even better.

It’s happiness.

***

Even identifies as an atheist with an occasional agnostic thought, so he doesn’t receive communion. Isak does, sometimes, when a weird mix of family obligation and religious guilt overwhelms him. Though his metabolism doesn’t quiet work with the whole prior fasting thing (at least, if civilian casualties are to be avoided). The church Marianne patrons is modern, both in architecture and policies, “everyone welcome” type of deal, which makes it not weird or hypocritical for Isak to bare his eternal soul there. Even couldn’t do it even if he wanted to: he has to swallow a whole pill salad with food every morning (and later, after dinner). Mostly those are unnecessary amino-omega three-whatevers, but Isak’s shoulders relax considerably when Even takes them, and a healthy established regime always helps. Also, Even’s skin never looked better. Yay, bonuses.

So he habitually observes from sidelines and milks the whole situation for its creative potential without shame. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t squeezed enough inspiration for a scene or two from this particular location. Recently built churches do hold up to their older Romanesque brothers, in his opinion. Both use different techniques, but provide a poor unsuspected viewer with the same sacral, intimate experience of being a small speck in an omnipotent deity’s hands. Bend and modify light and sound, direct the parched gaze as architectural ensemble demands. Architecture is frozen music, after all, and cinema is both – and more.

Marianne is next in the line of parishioners, turned away and facing the pastor already. She is a small woman, even tinier now compared to when Even first met her. She seems to have settled into her bones like a well lived-in house, as if her flesh is grouping around the soul contained inside, hugging it tighter and tighter still, in a futile attempt of protection. Marianne keeps on favoring floor length skirts and dresses, and the cut only serves to shrink her further. Long strands of her hair used to be more sandy blonde, like Isak’s, and flowed freely, but now their respectable grey is done up in a tidy bun.

Regardless of constantly trying to perceive other people as clean slates and build up from that, expectations and prejudices be damned, Even missteps sometimes. Several older people are forever “x’s parents” to him – not Julia, but “Magnus’s mom”. He who could have being Professor Vasquez is now “Jonas’s grandfather”. The reverse happened to Marianne, somehow. She became a person Even’s happy to know as a stand-alone entity. Maybe the reason why is because he isn’t exposed to that many religious people; she’s the only one, really. And maybe she’s not the best… example, but she’s his example.

Even watches as the woman leans forward and straightens again before turning around, hastily crosses her shoulders. Isak has his mother’s eyes: same piercing yet coy gaze that steals all the air from the one witnessing it.

“Come here now, son,” Marianne beacons when they’re close again, open arms outstretched. 

(He’s “son” now. He used to be “that tall young man”. Less to do with the man part, and more to do – with living in premarital sin. Funny how much a tiny golden band can fix.)

It’s an awkward fit, with Even folding himself down the best he can. So fragile in his grip, she smells clean of soap, medicine, and floral-scented hairspray. A gentle peck is pressed to his forehead. He thinks she probably means to share the received blessing like this, a second-hand touch from her all-forgiving god. It’s sweet in its own way. The whole sermon was sweet today, actually, a cute little thing about seeing the world’s hidden beauty. It spoke to Even for sure.

This town is small, picturesque. Everyone knows everyone, even if vaguely. Most people passing by in the aisle are elusively familiar, and the priest definitely recognizes Marianne by now. But no one engages the couple of them: not an avoidance, but respect for privacy. Everyone is also aware of the assisted living facility, one of the area’s finest, that their town is famous for. Though it’s fittingly small (expensive, too, and Isak’s very proud of the fact that they can afford it), the limited amount of residents can still be spotted around town rather frequently. There’s an etiquette established by now: no one, except for customer service people, will talk to you, unless you address them first. NPC-style. A respectable status quo, if you will, and a very comfortable one. It irritates some people, Isak included, but his mother and Even find it sweet. And creepily hilarious.

“Shall we?” Marianne asks in that susurrus voice of hers, stepping away and accepting the offered elbow. Her mind is cooperating today – she is very articulate and lucid, calm. The fact that her condition inevitably deteriorates with age only underlines the load of good her current accommodations provide. The woman is better now than even in her youth, if her son is to be believed. The worst Even remembers in a long time are some out of the blue conversation topics and mild paranoia with nervous over-the-shoulder glances. Harmless. Both he takes in stride and is able to handle – been there, done that.

There’s a standing reservation waiting for them at a local restaurant. Their waitress is young and definitely new. She’s the type of perky and attentive to immediately bring out a vase without asking. She doesn’t, because they’ve left the bouquet back in Marianne’s room, but Even bets she would.

“Good day, I’ll be right with you!” The girl chirps happily over menus. Her eyes are wide set and lovely. Even wonders, in an afterthought kind of way, if he would be attracted to her during another phase in life. Being married somewhat distorted his perception through the years, and (during a casting, for example) such line of thinking mostly has to be forced.

The waitress, even being a younger person - his target audience - doesn’t recognize him. Most people don’t, and not just because Even’s Niche Mediocre Famous has only just started going Obscure Popular. No one really remembers directors’, producers’, editors’ faces, including the most famous and influential ones. Someone like Spielberg, maybe. But Even’s sure most Michael Bay fans wouldn’t be able to pick him out in a lineup. And he is a good dozen tiers below Michael Bay.

Later, after they’ve ordered, Marianne sighs lightly, smoothing a checkered napkin over her knees. Her opener for the night is:

“How is that I feel my best in a nuthouse?” 

“Nuthouse” is such an ugly term, but who is Even to correct her? He never ended up in places Marianne did. Numerous unpleasant things sidestepped him: he never experienced a mixed episode, or worse – psychotic depression, and only went into psychosis once in his whole life so far. The aftermath was like waking up after a drunken blackout. He remembered nothing, unlike a manic episode, and came to in the regular ER, with people already there for him. Medics briefly had to use soft restraints, cuffs on both hands, but only to prevent self-harm. He asked if he’ll have to be admitted for a while, and the doctor who came down to evaluate him actually took him up in a chair for an impromptu “tour”. He didn’t sign Even in, just rushed him through some corridors to a common area full of people. 

“Do you really think you belong here, son?” The doctor asked him, all earnest.

Even had not understood, not at first. But when he glanced between the doctor and the patients once, twice, he got it. The doctor saw Even as different, somehow, from the people in the ward. There was an invisible line for him there, and Even with his diagnosis belonged outside.

Inside was a place for people like Marianne.

There is something wrong, scary, and very final about their society in that, Even thinks.

His every hospitalization prior and thereafter took place in a so-called “borderline state” ward, amongst other patients “like him”. With issues that are more socially acceptable. “High-functioning” disorders. The old boring anxious-depressive rainbow. Despite the fact that when the doctor showed Even those other, “too far gone” people, Even could barely sit. He cut into his own thigh from the knee up, aiming to explore inside his leg, apparently – he did not remember that. And the worst he ever witnessed Marianne do is destroy some objects and talk harmless nonsense.

The doctor who really helped Even, the one who had an assortment of tools to teach his patients if they wished to pick them up, even he viewed it that way. “You are the sanest wing in this hospital,” he loved to repeat. “Other wards, they’re obligated to accept everyone according to their health issues with no regard for the mental state. We, we have different criteria. We take on people like you, who we know can be turned back.”

Even came to understand: things that help people cope are often bizarre and somewhat ugly. He hates that the doctor’s remarks reassured him at the time.

“Don’t know what you’re on about,” he says to Marianne with a smile that is just a sweetener for the words. “You’re always at your best.” 

Marianne tut-tuts playfully across the table. “You flatterer.”

It isn’t an exaggeration, though. Even’s thought process is that… Well, for example, he’s not at his worst when depressed, right? He’s just sick then. He’s at his worst while stress-screaming the roof off his office, scaring underlings, or being a dick to someone in the service industry. Not offering enough support to Isak’s projects, like last fall with his medical… sound waves… sleep cycle app. 

Even’s work is on a larger scale, comparatively, and with bipolar a constant presence, his issues can overshadow their lives sometimes. Which isn’t ideal. Because Isak is not a media-constructed Artist’s Spouse cliché who gives out interviews on Even’s presumed genius in hushed, awed voice. Even knows it, Isak knows it, so does everyone that counts. But it would be nice to remind the world at large occasionally.

Marianne’s unable to decide today, so their order is Even’s choice. The wait is short. He conveys Isak’s love and apologies again, notices that the woman appears thoughtful rather than sad this time around, and the food’s already at the table, polite smile to boot. A short prayer is said; Marianne picks her fork up before adding cautiously:

“Maybe it’s better Isak’s not here today… maybe it’s a sign.”

“Why do you say that?”

Instead of digging in, the utensils are abandoned.

“A sign for what?” Even presses.

Marianne glances at him, eyelids twitching like she denies herself a blink. The lines around her mouth become more prominent. She wrings her dry neat hands with sunspots on the backs of them.

“I’m a sinner. The road to my forgiveness is long, but not one mortal on God’s green earth is fully righteous. Still, we were created in His image and are graced with His love. I came to see: God wants me to be happy for I am, as any other, His beloved child. And in the name of His love I have to make hard decisions to atone for my life choices. May God forgive me, I realize now it’s time for me to be divorced from Gustav.” The divorce part is whispered because in her reality the word is cursed. “Such a heavy sin, yet it is what’s right.”

Even is stunned into outright gaping. His bearings quickly gathered, he dips his chin, mentally flips through possible questions, and settles on:

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“I’m sure that’s what I deserve,” she answers, and whether the meaning behind that is one of accomplishment or of punishment is unclear. Delight, unexpected in its intensity, floods Even’s chest. This is a _good_ thing. Marianne will see it eventually – if she doesn’t already – for the progress it is. Treading on thin ice, he asks:

“But why don’t you want Isak to know?” 

She searches his face, maybe trying to feel out the reaction. “I do want him to know. Just not before his father. I would like _you_ to tell Gustav, actually.”

“Like… call him? Right now?”

“I would prefer if it happened face to face, so not right now, no. But soon, please. Can you do this for me?”

“Absolutely. Of course. All you had to do was ask.” She nods and lowers her eyes, sad and probably ashamed, to where her hands are in her lap. Even adds: “Would you- Do you have a lawyer already? Would you like to talk to ours? Or I could help you find another. Also, we could ask someone else to aid in the search?”

His poorly concealed enthusiasm at the news seems to relax Marianne in increments. She raises her head higher as her shoulders go down. “Not yet. Not yet. Though… I’ll probably settle on yours, in the end. But you’ll have to talk to Gustav first.”

Honored by the trust, he outstretches a hand, and the woman takes it, lets him squeeze her knobby fingers.

“It’s going to be alright, Marianne. You’ll see.”

To some extent, she’s the embodiment of Even’s fears. Autonomy limited; a burden in the eyes of the man she so obviously loves to this day. But, at the same time, she’s Even’s hope for the future: not only still in touch with reality – closer to it with age. Able to move on for her own sake. Not a hero figure, yet a strong person by necessity of life. A fellow survivor.

It helps that she loves Isak with every fiber of her being – a very likable quality in Even’s book.

“I’m not trying to make light of your pain here, but,” he winks, “why don’t we order some cake? Just a piece, to share?”

“A chocolate one?” She asks, tentative.

By dessert, the waitress seems to have grown fond of them; the cake slice she brings out is truly enormous and has an extra strawberry coated in white chocolate on it. Even tips her accordingly. 

During the unhurried walk back he pictures divorcing Isak, but quickly pushes those thoughts aside. Not because it’s unimaginable, on the contrary: he knows very well what it’s like to be apart and can conjure several pretty believable situations where separation would be the best option. But none currently apply, so what’s the point in self-flagellation? The image of their house, insides packed up to be torn in two, are so vivid they take the longest to fade.

As if sensing something, Marianne hugs him especially tight before he leaves. She goes to whisper in his ear, and he thinks it’s going to be the customary “God loves you.”

“Isak loves you, son, he really does,” she says instead, but to him it sounds interchangeable anyway.

***

_Did you get to mamma okay? Everything fine?_

The chill and totally casual face Isak makes when asking questions like this can actually be seen through the text if one squints just right.

 _Jonas is a rat_ , Even informs the group chat, and lets Eskild and Mateo have a field day with this information.

_snitCHES GET STITCHES!!!!!_

_If by stitches you mean spammed with gifs of themselves crying at evak wedding than yes_

_JooOOoonaAsssss, I’m telling Sana about the baby blanket thing, she totally won the bet.  
Come to think, I can’t believe I stuck with you heteros on that one instead of supporting MY GIRL SANA!_

_Sana is also a hetero my dude_

_Yeah, but she’s MY hetero!_

_I THOUGHT I WAS YOUR HETERO_

Even counts to three and, like clockwork, Eskild sends a jpeg of all-forgiving misty-eyed Jesus with arms open wide.

_All of you are my heteros <3_


	2. Whirlpool

It’s always there, this whirlpool. Not hovering nearby or sneaking up on him at moments, but literally _always inside his head_. He feels it swirling against the thin, half-translucent barrier of stability he carved out for himself tooth and nail. Sometimes – more frequently than an oblivious person would suspect – he almost gives in. Other times he just can’t help it biologically. It’s old news. His perception of it always shifts: he sees it as a part of himself one second; as a separate entity, an annoying neighbor, the next. But as it stayed the same, shuffling symptoms but not its core, he has changed so much. He’s been smart. He’s grown; he adapted, survived. When the whirlpool starts sucking him in, oftentimes now he can climb back out before the water gets too deep.

***

“By the way, have I told you about that guy at work who totally reminds me of you?” Isak says enthusiastically. The contrast between his badass look of stubbled jaw, fresh haircut, black shades and the oversized tracksuit he wears makes for a goofy feel. It’s so motherfucking endearing. The morning air around them is cool, but speared through by countless sunbeams. Their pinkish hue turns Isak’s skin outright rosy and cherub-like.

“I already don’t like where this is going,” Even remarks with a chuckle. 

“He’s, like, a huge fan of all those cooking channels and shows, and accounts, and blogs, the whole shebang-”

“And you know this how, exactly? Has he been working there long? Because that’s the first I’ve heard of him.”

“-and he has a shit-ton of artsy food porn everywhere-”

“Who _is_ this guy, anyway? Are you two, like, close? Should I be worried?”

“-but the funny part is, in real life he always orders the same thing, just a boring plain bolle. Every time. I swear!”

“Have you been eating together regularly enough to remember his order? The fuck?”

Irritated now, Isak makes a harsh stop and spins around on the narrow footpath until they collide chest to chest. Even sees his own reflection in the sunglasses and he just can’t help but burst out laughing.

“I am only repeating what everyone else is saying!” His husband’s exasperated voice jumps up an octave. He would fling his arms, but there’s a package with a new football in his left, so the movement is aborted and lopsided. “It’s an office legend, okay!”

“Okay, okay, peace. I’m sorry.”

Isak huffs and storms away, leaving an amused Even to hurry after him.

“Hey, baby, come on,” he says, catching Isak’s sleeve. Isak’s not really angry, it’s just their usual way of dicking around. “Explain how this guy reminds you of me?”  


Isak entwines their fingers. They were behind one another like ducklings before, and Even is pushed off the path now. The lawn will have to forgive his stomping. Worth it, to be able to walk beside his man.

“All the movies you like have very rich picture. Like, the frame is busy. There’s a lot going on. Not in a bad, Phantom of the Opera way. But, I mean. Like Darling Baz. Or, I don’t know. Suspiria?”

Due to his line of work, Even gets asked the dreaded question a lot – what is his favorite movie. He hates that question. Well, he gets where they’re coming from, but it’s still stupid. Predictably, he has a swarm of favorite movies, all suiting different criteria and unfit to be each other’s competition. He also has a love-hate relationships with a good chunk of them, depending on when you ask him. It’s like an ongoing cycle. His feelings toward Suspiria are at the “hate” faze currently, but he says nothing, just hums. It’s unwise to aggravate Isak again so soon.

“Okay, you have a point. And?”

“Seriously? You don’t get it? You have to ask?”

Even elbows him gently. No one’s better than Isak at bending words to illustrate certain points.

“ _And_ , your own movies are mostly bare. Minimalist. Whichever we’re using now. Isn’t it kind of interesting? Almost funny?”

Even nods. No matter how small, he appreciates every thought and opinion Isak shares about any film, not to mention Even’s own. He’s immensely grateful Isak developed a unique cinematic taste, even if the man is a – somewhat – late bloomer. In fact, Even’s steadiest go-to answer to the aforementioned dreaded question is, “It’s quite hard to settle on just one, but my husband is a big Children of Men fan, and I tend to agree, it’s fantastic.” Every part of which is technically true; interviewers come to resulting conclusions by themselves. That answer earned Even, who’s secretly often a “neat transition, movie still sucks” kind of guy, a certain rep. People probably think the two famous oners are what does it for him. Not complaining; one could be dubbed something way worse than a Cuarón fanboy by the media.

Maybe he’ll meet the dude one day and it’ll be awkward, or maybe it’ll be a charming funny moment. Either way, he can’t exactly confess that his favorite part is not the long takes, but Isak sobbing his eyes out in synch with the baby during the finale. Silently and with such emotional depth, Even’s insides do all kinds of weird dance moves. Isak always cries more tears with his right eye than his left one. (And Even’s _actual_ favorite Cuarón work, aside from saving the entirety of Harry Potter francise, is the last scene of Gravity, where its namesake can be clearly witnessed: as Sandra Bullock puts her legs under her, struggling, he can feel his whole body ache in sympathy – every watch.) 

Aside from Children of Men, Isak’s tastes are actually way more hipster-ish and obscure than Even’s, because he evaluates films by different standards. Mostly sound design, which Even can keep up with and appreciate, but definitely not to the same extent. Identical to how Isak is visually sophisticated on par with any other modern viewer, but largely visually illiterate at the same time. He’s able to spend hours analyzing technical aspects of sound or tearing down the temp music phenomenon with passion. Even can comprehend why Isak praises some things, like Come and See or No Country for Old Men, but others confuse him. And he’s hella into ambient, subgenres and all, so that’s saying a lot.

Anyway, nerdy geek Isak is awesome. And super hot.

“You think maybe I should try stepping out of my comfort zone?” Even asks, thoughtful.

“Not necessarily. It’s your signature style, why change it? I didn’t mean anything by it, it’s just an amusing anecdote.”

“See, there’s a fine line between “style” and “boring”.”

“No,” Isak chuckles, as though the statement’s ridiculous. “I don’t think you’re boring. You’ll have to decide for yourself, though.”

Even, obviously, has nothing against a busier frame, but aspires to make it so in more informative, relevant to the story ways, rather than just succumb to aesthetic. Closer to In the Mood for Love or Drive and less Darling Baz. Now here’s a nickname he should definitely ditch.

“We’ll see. I really want to film in Svalbard again, maybe something more interesting will come out of it this time.”

“Maybe.”

They walk in silence, clasped hands swinging. Even feels a rough patch under his thumb: Isak ignored the nagging warnings and scratched a scab away from an old burn. It used to be blistered over, but he tore the tender skin off of that, too. Even quickly looks down to try and discern the red spot, before looking back up when it proves impossible. Ahead, Gustav’s house, visible in the distance among its cookie-cutter neighbors, is getting indivertibly closer. Something akin to anxiety simmers in Even’s stomach, but never quite bubbles up. Isak sighs.

“I’m going to get my ass kicked hard, I’m so not in the mood for football.”

“Well, maybe you should stop pretending you’re any good at it then, old man.”

Isak does the Isak thing. “Wow, where do I even start to unpack this one?! Okay, first: I’m a fountain of youth. I’m actually the youngest one here right now? Second, I’m the best player, like? It’s a fact? I’m a love child of Messi and Maradona?”

***

Even does not like Gustav, Gustav does not like Even, and the resulting elephant is material enough to feed peanuts to. 

Even’s not exactly sure what Gustav’s problem with him is. Maybe the man draws parallels: he shares a certain softness with his son, and the whole mentally ill partners deal is an obvious similarity. Or it could just be that he hates how Even’s eyebrows jump up at everything. As for Even himself, well…

Over time, Isak has cultivated an ability to make peace with shitty things in order to keep the good ones around. They’re together till this day partially thanks to that. And Even appreciates this about him, grateful for the created opportunity. But it means Isak often goes with the flow and forgives a lot. Doesn’t hold grudges, lets the negative go.

Cannot hate his father for being a crappy parent. Doesn’t judge him for adding up to be a horrible human being.

Even does it _for_ Isak, on top of his own disdain. And no, neither hypocrisy nor irony are lost on him.

Gustav is okay, in the great scheme of things. He is sober, non-violent, hard-working. But as far as personal relations go, there are grudges, and judgment, and… it’s just a different perspective, is all. His second family, so far, is working out better than the first one did: Isak has two younger brothers, “late in life” children. When he takes them to the park, people assume he’s the father. Both boys think Isak hung the moon and have a severe case of hero worship towards him. Even wouldn’t call it “love”, because they don’t know their brother enough to love him. They are only familiar with the filtered folklore, an elevated to a pedestal version their father presents to compensate for his own lack of authority or to keep the good guy image intact. But they could. Could grow, and grow to know Isak, and grow to love him. Who could begrudge them that.

Even has no problem dealing with the boys; he has always been great with kids. The two use him as a jungle gym sometimes. He hasn’t directed any X-men movies, though, so he’s mostly boring in their eyes. A competition for Isak’s attention.

Gustav is also _very_ good with his younger sons. Never presumes they’re equipped to deal with something he himself isn’t. Always present. Almost as if he had a chance to learn on practical mistakes. Oh, wait.

“Would you like a beer, Even?” The man asks, voice polite and face neutral. He steps up to where Even is watching Isak and his brothers chase the ball around the yard.

“Thank you, but no, I don’t drink,” Even says – again. Gustav knows this. Even knows Gustav knows this. In reality, Even does drink sometimes. A beer here and there, some champagne, if the occasion calls for it, but he would never do so (or even mention the fact) in front of Gustav. And, funny thing, any parent would commend their in-law for such restraint. But Even’s bipolar, and thus even his miniscule alcohol intake gets scrutinized by a lot of random people like they are not only medical professionals, but his own personal doctor. It’s absurd. Sana once told him things are very similar for pregnant people, with everyone’s bombarding (baseless) advice. 

Instead of explaining, it’s easier to just outright proclaim abstinence. (And, – oh, the hilarity, – get hardcore judged as a prude for that too, by those unfamiliar with his situation. He learned to shut it down with a simple “I have a condition”, no elaborating.) Gustav keeps offering him drinks anyway; the man probably can sense there’s a nuance to Even’s words, but isn’t able to read the connotation, so he simply sets him up for failure. That’s how it comes off as. Which also, to a certain degree, intersects with Sana’s experiences, this time – as a Muslim. They had several exasperated discussions on the topic.

Gustav blinks at him, seemingly nervous now, but it’s hard to tell for sure.

“Would you like a coffee, then?”

This is getting ridiculous.

“I’m not thirsty, but I will take decaf, if you have it. Or maybe some juice. Otherwise, I’m fine, thanks,” Even says and smiles the way he knows _works_.

His initial plan was to corner the man later, and thus avoid awkwardness during dinner. He and Isak were going to take the boys for some ice cream as usual, so after that, perhaps. But, Even supposes, now works just as well. They are in Gustav and Junko’s quiet airy kitchen, facing a row of large windows. From the squealing outside, the football game is nowhere close to winding down. Why not. The news are big, but not bad or even that controversial. To hell with it.

“I need to talk to you, Gustav,” Even addresses the man’s narrow back. He is bent over, half inside the fridge, but quickly straightens and turns around at the words, grim, greying eyebrows gathered close on his nose bridge. There’s a pack of pineapple nectar in his hands. “You have to promise ahead to speak to Isak first, before anyone else.”

Even mostly means Junko. He’s eighty-five percent sure Isak will be fine, but it’s not worth the risk.

“What are you on about, Even?”

“Promise, I’m serious.”

Gustav cringes. “I promise.”

For that, Even nods towards his future drink: “I’ll have it on the rocks.” Just to stall; he feels a little cheeky. Maybe it’s the nerves.

A glass filled to the brim with ice chips is shoved at him impatiently mere seconds later. “Would you like a colorful straw? Because we have an assortment-”

“Marianne wants a divorce.”

Gustav gawps at him.

Similarly to the rest of his life from afar, Gustav’s relationship with Marianne is okay. He doesn’t visit or call, but they exchange messages through Isak sometimes. He graciously accepted her refusal of legal separation all those years ago, when she had no mental capacity to deal with the concept, and decided to refrain from suing. After weeks of Isak begging and running as mediator between his parents, stressed and afraid for Marianne’s wellbeing. But otherwise, yeah, Gustav’s relationship with Marianne is totally chill.

Sure, getting upset by being legally stuck in a loveless marriage is to be expected. What affronts Even is that Gustav acts like he behaved graciously and with sympathy from the get-go, which completely erases Isak and Isak’s emotional labor from the narrative. A bit of a pattern there. Even doesn’t want to understand Gustav’s thought process, but he does. Even’s an expert on shame and, if critics are to be believed, on deconstructing it thematically. It’s his, ha, old friend on par with darkness, if not prior to it. Regardless of the cause, he has done so many things in his life to be legitimately ashamed of, in social terms. Countless. Last time, he climbed a pine tree. The fire department had to get him down; a helicopter was involved. He made local news as “unidentified male perpetrator”.

Managing mental illness is a mundane and never-ending process. One you have to keep at forever and always, even when it seems unnecessary in better moments, even when it’s boring with the initial triumphant pride of recovery so far behind. Trial and error. Even learned to talk to himself better, be positive and kind, preventing shame from spiraling him under. People have different coping skills and mechanisms, though.

Some erase things by forcing them into non-existence to pacify their shame; leave sacrifices at its nagging altar. Like Gustav does.

The man is Isak’s height, but Isak somehow never feels this tiny a person by Even’s side. When Gustav’s face lights up with a still unbelieving smile, the resemblance is there, but… it’s not even half as charming. There’s not enough prominence to his features, yet not enough softness simultaneously. His face makes Even crave a Delicatessen rewatch.

“Marianne… wants a divorce? Did I get that right?”

“Yes. You did.”

“Did she mention that in a conversation or something?”

“She told me, explicitly, and asked to relay the request. She wanted to have your answer before spreading the news.” Even takes a drink and winces at the cool sourness, sucks air through his clenched front teeth to battle it. “So, what do you say, are you up for it?”

“Up for it?! I’m so happy I can barely-”

The door bangs open, and a dark whirl of activity pours inside. It’s Junko in a stylish pantsuit, loaded with a laptop bag and a briefcase. Keys clank as they land into a nearby bowl. The woman’s out of breath, toeing her shoes off, when she notices their household guest. She smiles: 

“Even! How’s work?”

Even’s not proud to admit he has only a vague idea of what Junko does. Some weekend-less cube job, likely having to do with sales, since Gustav met her at an office party. Shame, because she always checks up on him this way. He toasts her and answers chirpily:

“The usual. Every day is a barely averted catastrophe, and I go to bed craving the sweet release of death, hoping that maybe I won’t wake up in the morning. When it’s done, I feel like I will never have enough strength or desire to make anything ever again. But after some hibernation, all is forgotten. Like a birth-giving parent forgets their pain and suffering, I go back to it. Rinse, repeat. I’m at the forgetting stage right now.”

Group therapy is interesting in a lot of ways, one of them – the meetings gather a variety of extremely different people from all bearings of life. At his last one, after one woman explained her daily mental process and the challenges she faces due to her anxiety disorder, the other participant, attending to educate herself, spoke out and said: “I have to admit, listening to this made me realize I’m unsinkable. It never happens to me!” She did not see the strength it takes to deal with any mental illness on top of the usual daily struggles. She perceived it like this: you’re only strong, you “win”, if you do not “succumb” to it, but once you do, you’re done for. Permanent loser.

Junko was never like this. She just gets it. Sometimes, when she asks how he’s doing (and there’s a swarm of thoughts buzzing in his head he won’t do anything about, and a heaviness behind his left lung he has no intention of following through with), he can say, “Mildly suicidal.” Even has no reservations about sharing with her, confident she’ll get his humor. He’s right this time, as he always is: her bold laughter bounces off the kitchen tiles. “I _love_ talking to you, really. Puts things into perspective.” She’s blowing long and black escapee hairs away from her face as she goes to kiss Even’s cheek.

“Marianne asked for divorce!” Gustav bursts immediately in his partner’s general direction, exactly the way Even knew he would. He and Junko are holding onto each other’s elbows as the man almost jumps in excited circles around them. It’s exhausting to watch.

Even should call Magnus up. He deserves some Gentle Friend time. They could take a boat out on a lake near Magnus’s cabin, as is their custom by now. Get cocooned in blankets and pout in silence under the pretense of fishing. Or whine at each other under its pretense, scaring the fish off with de-stressing yells. Catch up on Daria’s situation. They’re worried Magnus’s daughter might have bipolar, with genetics skipping a generation. Magnus is Even’s most bro-ey friend, and they are always all over each other in the best platonic way, hugging and exchanging pats and even head bumping like there’s no tomorrow. Even really needs that.

End cutscene. He rolls his eyes as he gulps the juice down, unnoticed behind the glass, and it hurts more than the resulting brain freeze. “I asked you specifically not to say anything until you talked to Isa-”

“How could I keep silent?! We can finally get married!”

“That’s the first time I ever heard marriage brought up,” Junko says, cautious but firm. Her grip slips off. “We should discuss it in private.”

The boys are still having fun out in the yard, their laughter vibrating through the air. Even decides he’ll join the game while their parents talk things out. Spending time with the kids is an adventure. He and Jun recently got to a first name basis and started doing an elaborate exploding fist bump thing that could use some more practice. Gudleik’s too young for that. He probably still thinks Isak and Even’s names are Niichan and Oniisan respectively. But he’s content to hover nearby and observe, so it’s fine. A visual learner, that one.

Even nope-s out of Gustav and Junko’s awkwardness, rounds the corner to where the back door is, and is met face to face with Isak. Isak startles and shifts awkwardly, dropping his head in a guilty gesture. The corridor is not well-lit, and he looks pale and miserable in its dimness. 

“How much did you hear?” Even whispers, mindful of the kitchen situation. His husband coughs, shrugs a single shoulder, and rubs at his nose with the back of his hand. Triple co-co-combo. “I’m guessing, all of it?”

Lovely. Maybe he needs – they both need, really – one of Sana’s patent dinner parties, instead. She’s the master at sending out the “be misogynistic/islamophobic/homophobic and _die_ ” vibes in every direction simultaneously. It’s amazing and hilarious. But it’s only peak fun when there are new, yet unchecked, people present, so he has to make some fresh friends to drag over, first.

“We should,” Isak gestures behind his back and holds the pause to the porch. “I caught a glimpse of Junko returning, thought I’d come say hi,” he explains.

Even palms the nape of Isak’s neck, so fragile under his grip. Isak is warm from all the running around, and the ends of his neatly trimmed hair are a little wet with it. Even tugs at them lightly once, twice. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I-” Isak nods, eyes down. “It’s just… why didn’t mamma call me? Doesn’t she trust me?”

“No! No,” Even pulls him into a loose embrace, inhales the scent of his sunshine-soaked skin. “I think she simply didn’t want to hurt or upset you. Are you?”

“Hurt or upset?” A huff. “No! I’m happy it all worked out in the end. This’ll be good for her.”

His voice sounds thin and wavering. He unburdens his weight onto Even, heavy and so dear, and rubs his face against Even’s shoulder like a cat. 

“Aw, baby,” Even sighs. “Take tomorrow off, to compensate for yesterday, huh? We’ll recuperate, listen to all the Sugar Pie DeSanto your little heart can handle.” Isak’s awesome about letting Even quietly recharge. He always suffers stoically by his side while Even climbs from black-and-white movies like Pi and Un Chien Andalou, through Clerks, and all the way up to hellish, colorful Transformers marathons. It’s only fair to return the favor.

“Maybe.”

Even holds him, surveying the green expanse of grass he can see over his head. Nearby, a wooden wind chime hangs from the awning, and its low subtle sounds are hypnotizing. The moment stretches to near-infinity.

It’s broken when Gudleik notices Even and abandons his brother in favor of running over. A funny sight, because he’s an easily excited child, but a bit intimidated by how tall Even is. His initial enthusiasm becomes a coy reluctance by the time he climbs the two porch steps. He comes close enough to merge with Even’s pants, head thrown all the way back so that the mouth is open slightly in almost awe.

The boy’s outfit is Kitty Detective-themed from his absurdly tiny sneakers to the bandana meticulously tied around his head. Even never watched the show, and he ought to – several of his work friends are involved. He remembers the hell Gustav raised over finding the right merchandise in time for his son’s birthday; the calls he practically begged Even to make, tossing any pride aside. Even imagines the man’s hands tying a cotton knot with great care. There has to be a reason why Junko chose him; why Marianne loves him, still. Maybe it makes sense.

“Hey, buddy,” Even says, letting go of Isak (to some extent). He kneels to be at Gudleik’s eye level, and the boy shuts his mouth only by following Even’s movement with his whole head. “Do you think we can beat Jun and Isak at football?”

When he finally gets a moment to himself, there are twelve missed calls on his phone: six from his manager, and six from Ammaarah. This should be interesting.

***

As opposed to Even’s mansard, Isak’s home office is in their basement and is, essentially, a soundproofed to the nines mini-studio. There’s even a red signal light above the stairs that switches on when any interruption would ruin a recording session. When it does, Even (at his most paranoid) is only maybe seven percent worried Isak fucks starlets in there.

Right now the oblong bulb is off, dead and black inside its cage, so he stomps down the steps, naked soles to concrete, not hoping it’ll announce his arrival. It’s a perverse hour of the night. So perverse, all the baby owls and all the little vampire bats and the fluffy mothmen are fucking asleep. Except for Isak Valtersen hyphen – shut up, Isak, there _is_ a _social_ hyphen – Bech (or sometimes Næsheim, if mamma was nosier than pappa during their latest dinner). Even fell asleep with his glasses still on, and his face now has indents in it and hurts.

The overhead lights are off, the rest is blinking like a deranged Christmas tree. Isak’s head flies up at the noise and he blinks, all deer in the headlights. His head’s silhouette looks like Princess Leia’s with the massive headphones playing space buns. On the wall above a battery of monitors there’s a custom neon sign, Even’s gift. It’s yellow and pink and it spells, “I _like you_ like you”, a joke about its owner’s suspicious nature. The mixed light paints Isak’s face a consistent orange when he half-turns away.

“Why the hell are you not in bed,” Even whines, heading to where Isak sits and dropping to his knees in front of the chair seamlessly. The rug here is plush, so that’s less painful than it could have been. He faceplants into Isak’s thigh and relaxes into a puddle, limbs rag doll-like. Isak’s sweats smell like Red Bull. Which he probably drunk, even though he’s not supposed to, and spilt all over himself. 

“Shit, what time is it?” Isak’s voice is thick after such a long silence. His fingers go to Even’s hair, and Even can feel short nails scratching gently against his scalp. He shivers a little, succumbing to a wave of goosebumps down his spine and forearms. A rustle spills over the table’s edge as Isak checks in with his computer. “Wow, that late?”

Even moos and moans into the soft grey fabric and trusts him to extract the question out of that.

“Yeah, a second… Okay, now.”

The power strip is by the quietly whirring processor, and Even can catch its light-up switch in his blurry peripheral vision. He flops a hand around some before locating the button; the fan noises go lower in tone before dying.

Isak tows him upstairs and grumbles all the way because he’s secretly feeling guilty. It’s one of those things that are so deeply ingrained, they can’t be helped. Even can’t stop smiling and acting overzealous when he’s hiding something, nevermind that it’s a dead giveaway. He’s mostly awake again when they get to the bed, enough to witness Isak habitually smashing his sheen against its corner. They are about to buy a new, less traumatic frame. They have been about to buy it for three years now.

“The next script, I think I found it,” Even says over Isak’s ritualistic “undressing with a toothbrush” dance. The answer is muffled by foam: “Yeah? What’s it about?”

“A girl.”

Isak goes to spit and rinse (in the dark, as a true night creature he is), and returns with a serious face. 

“She lives by the sea and sells seashells,” Even tries.

“You already have a Golden Lion.”

“There’s a love subplot?”

“You already have a Golden Bear, too.”

Even chuckles. The blanket won’t give, so he resigned himself to spending a cold night overtop it. Meanwhile, Isak is positively drilling him with a distrustful gaze. Apparently, resignation is the theme for the night. “Alright, you caught me. There’s also a mermaid subplot.”

“There it is,” Isak sighs from inside his hoodie. He emerges on the other end of it with hair all messed up. “But that’s not all. I can see it in your face.” Even pretends he drifted off, Isak pinches him unceremoniously. He always knows when Even’s lying, it’s why Astrid thinks he’s telepathic. “Out with it. Come on.”

“I want to film most underwater parts in zero gravity.” He says it quickly and burrows under the pillow, away from any potential judgment. The resulting sigh is not the most exasperated, but it’s up there, made top ten for sure. “No one is taking you into space, Even.”

“Not into space, no. But I meant more like reduced gravity, as in, those planes that go on a parabola?”

“You mean vomit comets. That costs a fortune, no one’s going to give you money for th- you already have the money, don’t you.”

Isak is a cheater, he’s a blanket whisperer, he’s under there somehow. And he’s always so warm, the covers will soon amplify it cozily, and Even will die where he is of hypothermia, and his body won’t be found until the snow melts in the spring. It is spring, though, so – the next one.

The Isak-scented pillow is lifted away from Even’s face. “You can’t breathe there.”

“Of course I can, it’s not vacuum! Ammaarah says, if we keep the zero gravity stuff to under five minutes and add some CG in less important scenes, we can wing it! With some actual underwater shots… Which I hate, by the way, because they make-”

“The eyes flat, yes, I know. And I meant you can’t breathe under the pillow. There’s no air.”

“There’s all the air,” Even retorts, and plops the pillow back on top of himself. 

“I thought you weren’t going to work with Ammaarah for a while?”

“This is the last time. Elja says we should go for it.”

Isak hums. He trusts Elja, Even’s preferred cinematographer of the past six years and what some would consider his “work husband”. But the Ammaarah thing…

It’s not that she wouldn’t spit on Even if he was on fire. It’s more like, if he was on fire during a rainstorm, she would hold an umbrella over his head to prevent any contact with water. They love each other, really, but they’ve been working together for way too long, since Ammaarah was an assistant of an assistant – and she’s a solid producer now. They are tired of each other. Also, Even introduced Eskild to her then-boyfriend (Eskild’s now-baby daddy), so there’s that.

Isak takes pity on his suffering husband, and soon they are both wrapped up. Their home at night always reminds Even of what it would be like to live in a giant bowl of glass beads. He went a tad bit overboard with mirrors – and shiny surfaces in general – for the bedroom décor (because Magnus and Eskild left him alone in a fancy salon without price tags on things), and the blue-and-black darkness around is prickly with reflected twinkles. It’s subdued night-time light – moon, cars passing by, far-away street lamps – and it’s mysterious and jewel-like. Isak’s eyes also catch what little shine hits them. It’s those same eyes he whispers secrets

_-I was so scared. So scared. Pretense was nice, but you changed everything, forever, and nothing could ever be the same again. No matter what would or wouldn't come out of it, I knew the pretense was over, and I-_

to Even with. A guardian of mysterious riches in this treasure cave amidst an inky abyss: Even imagines vividly how he’ll spin the whole mermaid thing.

Isak has power over him, and Even isn’t sure he realizes how much, exactly. How all-encompassing it is, how vulnerable Even feels, always. It’s not a painful vulnerability, though, - it’s trust. Isak holds Even’s heart in the palm of his hand, but not to crush it. He cradles it, like a cathedral enfolds a true believer in its incense-heavy air.

Even shifts them this way and that, until he has a satisfactory grip on his husband with both arms. Isak has that Red Bull quickness to his breaths – unlikely to fall asleep easy. Even kisses his temple and whispers, “Tell me about your app again?”

***

He knows there’s always a trade-off. There are closed doors, places where he won’t ever be welcome again, there are people he lost forever; words spewed from his mouth that can never be swallowed back down, words dead on his tongue that missed their cue. But new spaces opened up, embracing him. New connections, filled with potential, are made every day. There had been an abundance of restraint and tact and discipline, just as there had been countless important proclamations and witty remarks. He has to stay vigilant by his whirlpool, and it’s a constant reminder of this… otherness he’s been burdened with. But also, strangely, he can see all he achieved and holds dear reflected back at him. And some nights, when he lays and listens, quiet, it spins so steadily and smoothly, it’s almost like the water is still.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Restraints** (soft handcuffs on both hands, strapped to a bed) are mentioned in a flashback; they are briefly used on Even to prevent him from self-harming during a psychotic episode.  
>  **Self-harm** is Even slicing up his thigh due to a delusional desire to see what’s inside of it. It’s not graphically described; it’s not life-threatening and leaves no permanent physical damage.  
>  I hint at Marianne having **paranoid schizophrenia** , but I do not state it outright, because the canon hasn’t spelled it out, and I don’t want to take representation away from another mental illness (if they will define it and it’ll turn out to be something different).
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> **All events described here happened to me, were witnessed by me firsthand, or were relayed to me by people I personally know in real life. Please, be aware that mental illness is not a monolith, and neither are mentally ill people. Everyone’s experience is different. I do not speak for all mentally ill people. This is a personal story; this is **not** an educational story. I am not a medical professional. I will not be disclosing any further details about my mental illness. Thank you for understanding.**
> 
>  
> 
> And, once again, English is not my first language :D
> 
> Thank you for reading my story!
> 
> XOXO
> 
> [ **Fanart blog** ](http://bravekate.tumblr.com/)


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